


FIC:  Rum Punch

by elessil, Hippediva



Category: Pirates of the Caribbean
Genre: Christmas, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-22
Updated: 2010-03-22
Packaged: 2017-10-08 05:19:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/73107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elessil/pseuds/elessil, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hippediva/pseuds/Hippediva
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Christmas in Port Royal with an unexpected surprise.  Merry Christmas to one and all!</p>
            </blockquote>





	FIC:  Rum Punch

**Author's Note:**

> NOTES: Cacho is a 17th century bidding game, the precurssor to poker. [Reconstruction](http://astro.uchicago.edu/~ruben/cards/reconstructions/reconstructions3.html#cacho)

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
**Current mood:** |    
happy  
---|---  
**Current music:** | Chopin---Waltz No. 12 in F Minor  
**Entry tags:** |  [fiction](http://hippediva.livejournal.com/tag/fiction)  
  
_**FIC: Rum Punch**_  
AUTHORS: [](http://elessil.livejournal.com/profile)[**elessil**](http://elessil.livejournal.com/) and [](http://hippediva.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://hippediva.livejournal.com/)**hippediva**  
DISCLAIMER: The Rodent Empire owns the franchise, we are pirates.  
PAIRING: James/Jack  
RATING: NC-17

SUMMARY: Christmas in Port Royal with an unexpected surprise. Merry Christmas to one and all!

Governor Swann's Christmas dinner usually was a small affair, few people invited but the immediate relatives and closest friends. As many of them had chosen to return to England for this year's Christmas, Norrington had the misfortune of being the only one invited who was not the Governor's daughter and her husband.

The evening had been pleasant enough, the meal delicious, the conversation entertaining, almost too much so. Too close a circle in which he didn't belong anymore. Nobody had mentioned anything or even glanced at him askew; on the contrary, they were warm and welcoming; even young William overcame his usual shyness.

And that was wrong. They were the family, he wasn't. He remembered well enough how, as a child, he had always hated the strange persons that would show up at their Christmas dinner; distant cousins that would babble about how much he had grown since the last years. He would have much preferred to spend Christmas evening with his mother and brothers, perhaps his uncle and cousins, but definitely not with the strange merchant friends his uncle had always invited.

This was an intimacy that he had not gained. Wished for it, perhaps, but the reality was different. So, despite the protests, he excused himself as soon as he politely could, a small, knowing smile on his face. It was for the better, of that he was convinced.

During the past eight years, he had become used to the constant Caribbean heat, but stepping outside into it on Christmas Day always reminded him that this was not a particularly hot summer; that the heat here never faltered. Not even in December or January.

He shook his head and accepted his mount from the groom, riding back home. He would find a good book and then rest. Tomorrow, the fort would be blissfully quiet and he could finally get some work done.

There was something amiss. Light from his dining room's window, too much light. Even if Mrs. Thornton, his housekeeper, had, for whatever reason, lit a lamp during the day and forgotten to douse it, it would not be so bright.

He quickly unlocked the door and got inside, nearly stumbling. He scowled and looked down. A pine cone? Pine needles? Coloured bits of ribbon? And muddy footprints several sizes too big for Mrs. Thornton.

He cursed that he had not taken his sword for the occasion. It was stowed away in his wardrobe upstairs. Hissing another curse under his breath, he carefully edged towards the dining room, peering inside.

It was empty, but that was the only thing being as it should.

Every lamp and candelabra was lit, and not so long ago, judging from the dripping shrouds of tallow. Pine bows had been arranged around the sideboard's enormous mirror and a bed of them lay on a blazing scarlet strip of silk, heavy with gold embroidery and tiny mirrors that reflected the light. In the midst of the boughs, gaily tied with cherry-red ribbons, was his own punchbowl, steaming hot. With the curtain half-drawn, it was impossible to see the palms waving in the wind and looked almost perfect....almost home.

Even the smell was right. The candles, pines, the steaming punch; the peculiar smell when one would ignite a pine needle for play and watch it smoulder. Had Mrs. Thornton? No, she wouldn't. Where would she have found pines in the Caribbean, and she would never, ever make muddy footprints in his house and then not scrub them away immediately.

He straightened, every sense alert. There was a soft, constant sound from his study, barely audible through the open door.

He slid closer to the fireplace, lit for once - in the Caribbean it served more as a decoration, unlike the one he would huddle before back in England - and grabbed a poker. His sword or pistol would be better, but going upstairs was out of question.

Slowly, he edged over the carpets to the study, peering through the door.

He nearly dropped the poker.

Sparrow. _Captain_ Jack Sparrow hunched over his desk, curled on his arms, Norrington's pipe drooping from his fingers, a bottle of rum clutched close. And he was snoring.

Norrington slid closer, wary, the poker raised. He leveled it at the height of Sparrow's throat.

Sparrow woke with a start, shaking his head like a confused dog and gulped as the first thing his bleary eyes focused on was the poker. He raised his hands and his eyes, backing away in the chair as far as he could. "Hello, Commodore. Happy Christmas."

Jack cursed himself four ways past the Apocalypse. It had been a mad whim, conceived in wine and executed with the aid of stronger spirits. For three hours, he'd worked to haul the pine boughs in through the window of the little parlor 'round back: quite the homiest room in the house and, he imagined, likely the housekeeper's domain. He grinned.

"It was, Sparrow, before you showed up."

Norrington eyed him coolly, the poker following each of his movements. It wasn't terribly close, but close enough that it could be any second if the Commodore decided to bring it there. And he did look terribly angry.

"Sparrow, what pathetic reason has your brain supplied for your being here?"

"Now before ya get yer knickers in a knot, I wasn't here t'do any damage. Was supposed t'be gone but it was warm by the fire. Right. I wanted t'introduce you to the best rum punch in th' colonies."

Norrington's eyes were sparking fire and Jack cringed. It had been a stupid idea, but earlier in the afternoon it had sounded reasonable. Though why on earth he should have lit on the Commodore as the recipient of his sudden holiday spirit only Neptune himself knew.

"Sparrow, your sheer presence is damage to my temper and any goodwill that I might have on this evening." Norrington pushed the poker close, watching with grim satisfaction how the pirate's eyes widened and crossed. Then he sighed and dropped it, still at the ready but removing the immediate threat. "I have no wish to run through or arrest anyone, even you, on Christmas Evening. Leave."

"Awright, awright. Jus' had a feelin' you weren't havin' too much fun this day. An' everyone should, y'know. Have fun on Christmas, I mean." Jack pushed himself out of the chair and skirted the room like a crab, his eyes never leaving Norrington's. He picked his coat up from where he'd tossed it earlier and slung it on with the baldric and stuffed the abandoned pistol into his sash.

"I'd drink that soon. It was pipin' hot a while back, but mus' be coolin' off."

James would have rolled his eyes and shaken his head, but his gaze was busy following every single movement Sparrow made, narrowing as he took the pistol. "My state of entertainment is none of your business, and if you think so poorly of my mental state that I would drink anything you have prepared, you are mistaken." No matter how tempting it smelled.

Jack scowled at him and crammed the battered hat onto his head. "An' you call me daft! Wot call would I have t'poison you? Not likely that I'd do anythin' so Machiavellian anyways. Believe wot ya like, Commodore. Jus' happened t'be close by an' thought it might be enjoyed. That's all." His hands were raised again, always moving, fingers flittered and punctuated his words. His eyes were pitch dark, reflecting the light and looked almost hurt.

"Pray tell, Sparrow, what is more likely? That you, a pirate, would come to my house and decorate it and make rum punch, for no other reason than to wish me a happy Christmas, or that you would have a malicious purpose to it. I know logic is not your forte, but this should be an easy conclusion even for you."

Jack paused at the doorway, a slow smile creeping into his mustache. "Why not? Supposed t'be 'goodwill towards mankind' an' all that, isn't it?" He knew he should make good the opportunity to escape. Whatever the Commodore had eaten apparently wasn't sitting too well. But the punch did smell so good and he would so like to sample a little more of it.

"Jack Sparrow, as a Christmas elf?" Norrington laughed darkly. "This is certainly more fantastic than any stories told to me as a child."

The sight of his dining room as he followed Sparrow gave him a sentimental twist again, almost hearing his mother's voice as she'd sung, back in England. Especially that smell, sweet and mixed with something so very definitely not Caribbean. He wanted the punch very badly now, but there was no way he could risk it, other than... "If your punch is so fine and harmless as you pronounce it, by all means, take a cup."

Jack's smile brightened immediately. "I don't know about elves much, but I'd these bottles, y'see. Finest rum an' French brandy. An' I figgered you'd be the one who'd mos' appreciate 'em." He ladled the hot concoction into the silver mugs and held one out to Norrington. His grin was playful, like a schoolboy sneaking treats.

"Happy Christmas, Commodore!" He raised the mug and waited, then took a gulp. "See. I'm not keelin' over an' screamin' fer a doctor!"

Norrington's eyes narrowed and he peered at Sparrow's mug. Truly, a good part of the liquid in it was gone, and it was not on the floor or on the man's clothing, either. It seemed the trap was somewhere else. He raised his own mug. "Very well then. Thank you, Sparrow." Up close to his nose, the punch smelt even better, and it was warm and delicious as it slid down his throat. His eyes slid half closed and he smiled to himself.

Jack grinned at him broadly. "Got taught how t'make it proper in the South China Sea." He laughed. "But seems as Pete were right. Made it fer a lot of folk an' they always said it was jus' like back in Blackfriars." He was still poised to flee, not that it would get him far, but if pressed, he wasn't going to make it easy on anyone. "So where was dinner, Commodore? Guv'nor an' the kiddies?" He grimaced. "That sounds cozy."

"For them, certainly." Norrington had gotten one of his pistols from the study and now settled himself in the wide armchair. Strange, how Sparrow's company seemed almost more natural than the Turners', as though they were meant to nettle each other. "And why aren't you aboard your Pearl?"

"I was until this mornin'. Lots of the crew got girls in town an' such. An' I felt I wanted t'thank you, once an' fer all. Fer not hangin' me, I mean. Very decent of ya and I, for one, was certainly pleased."

Jack walked over to Norrington cautiously and took the mug to refill it. He backed towards the other armchair and perched on it for a moment, then pulled the hat off and crammed it in his coat's enormous pocket.

Norrington raised an eyebrow. Interesting. He could not quite place Sparrow's intentions yet, but they definitely stirred a curiosity. He didn't believe for a second that the pirate didn't want anything else, but divining those intentions seemed like a worthy challenge, certainly more interesting than any paperwork that might wait for him. "Either leave, or sit down properly."

Jack raised an eyebrow. "Awright, if ye'll be so kind as t'put that pistol aside; facin' one already drawn an' primed is a bit unsettlin'." He set the mug down carefully on the table and peeled his coat off again, slouching into the chair. "Wot's it like, Commodore? Christmas in London? Funny, but I never saw it...well, not t'speak of. Not in fine places."

Norrington uncocked the pistol, instinct screaming. He had it lying close and would be able to reach it quickly if it became necessary. "Christmas in London? Cold, outside at least. Sometimes even snow, although I only ever saw that once. Lots of people." He grinned lopsidedly. "And punch."

"Oh I remember the snow an' the cold. An' all th' people. But used t'see them fine houses all lit up an' always wondered." He grinned. " 'Twas gin an' water mostly in Wapping. First tasted an orange there. Mus' be why I left, y'know." He was feeling quite comfortable, now that the Commodore was sitting like a hunter in a blind.

"I think what I remember most was the huge fireplace that was always lit." He'd always snuck some roasted almonds from the housekeeper and curled up in front of it, huddling into a blanket. "I hid there with a book as long as I could. Which meant until my aunts found me and dragged me away for conversation before Christmas dinner."

Jack slouched a little more, his leg itching to be thrown over the arm of the chair, but he restrained himself with a fair amount of fidgeting. "Aunts, oh Lord. Never had th' pleasure of 'em meself, but I've heard tell. Unattached females put on earth t'drive every man of any age mad, right?"

"It seems that you achieved your madness without the assistance of aunts."

Strange, how a little bit of decoration could make Norrington feel more at home in the presence of a pirate than at the Governor's celebrations throughout the past years.

"So how does a pirate celebrate Christmas? Other than suicidal."

Jack sipped at the hot punch and thought for a moment. "Depends on wot's about. If all's well an' there be fair winds, havin' a fine old party at some tavern. Or a boucan on a beach. That's best. All yer mates, plenty o' grub, rum fer th' askin'." He grinned. "Sometimes, on his onsies, too."

"Alone? With no one wanting to spend his Christmas in the company of the grand Jack Sparrow?" Norrington chuckled into his punch, then half-smiled as he remembered that he was alone here, too, and far more mellow than was fit for his station. "Which madness drove you to come here?"

Jack never stopped grinning and he did swing his leg over the arm of the very proper wingchair, which immediately looked abashed and its wool embroidery seemed to blush. "Well, luv. I'd a feelin' you haven't been enjoyin' life these past months. So, bein' magnanimous and in pursuit of common humanity, I figgered ye'd like a bit of punch and didn't you ever sit up wif yer da an' play cards Christmas night?"

It was a story he'd heard from so many tars; officers and old salts. His memories were considerably different; five years old and sitting on his father's knee, watching the game and providing the extra cards under cover of his sleeve.

Norrington seemed to withdraw, the ice that had thawed a bit freezing over again. "No, Sparrow, I never did, because I never as much as knew my father. And why you would think that a Christmas in your presence would be more enjoyable than anything else I had planned is quite beyond me."

Jack rolled his eyes and sat up properly. "Sorry, luv. Didn't know him? I'm really sorry 'bout that. Commodore?" He ignored the more personal remark.

There was a moment when kinship warmed his eyes, then they grew dark and wary again.

Norrington shrugged and took another sip of his punch. "You couldn't have known." There was, unspoken, the apology that he'd overreacted; the sense that as many a thing there was for which he could blame Sparrow, this wasn't one of them. "I did play cards with my brother. He cheated."

Jack smiled. "Course he did. It's no fun unless ya cheat except when ya play straight with someone else you know is cheatin'. That's the mos' fun. Best player I ever saw was a lovely lady in Port-au-Prince. Crooked as a weddin' vow, but damnation, she was fun t'watch."

Norrington raised an eyebrow, emptying his punch. "According to your theory, it would then be the most fun for me to play with you, as I know you are cheating."

Jack leaned closer, his eyes twinkling. "It would be th' mos' fun because you wouldn't be sure." His head tilted to one side, trinkets jangling as he smiled.

Norrington laughed. "The only reason you would not cheat is if your hand were so good that there was no need to. Which hardly counts as not-cheating." He rose, slid past Sparrow and poured himself another mug of the punch, lest it cool completely.

"Was that a challenge?"

Jack was on his feet and swept into a bow. "At yer service, sir." From somewhere, he produced a pack of cards, his eyes daring Norrington to trust them.

Norrington's eyebrows rose again and he inclined his head, so sharply that it could not be anything but mocking. "I suppose it is better if I keep your grimy fingerprints off my cards."

Jack laughed and left the deck on the table, refilling his mug. "Much better, I'm sure. " He pulled out the chair to the right of the head of the table, and waited.

James took the seat, eyes lit up. This promised to be interesting at the least.

Jack shuffled and looked blandly and theatrically innocent. "Cacho?" His hands moved damned fast, the cards crackling between his fingers, riffled high into an arc then back again.

James took a sip of punch and nodded, following Sparrow's hand rather than the cards. They were only two to keep track of, not 24. The first card was a 4. He reached for the money pouch in his coat and tossed a shilling on the table.

"High stakes, Commodore?" Jack beamed and slid a half-crown on top of it. A card game was the best way to watch any potential bedmate, after all. And Jack had the most wicked of designs for such a day as Christmas.

"Commodore!" He made a face. "So formal an' proper. Wot's yer real name?"

It was positively mad, to gamble with a pirate he knew was cheating, but James didn't mind. It was a challenge, something that only very rarely presented itself when he was ashore. He met Sparrow's bet and took his second card. He tossed another half-crown in their midst.

"It's James, if you must know."

"The supplanter, Jacobus. Whom didja supplant, James?" Jack drew his card and studied them intently, then looked up.

There were never eyes like that across James Norrington's dining table. There had been several pairs, very beautiful and paired with equally lovely debts or gaggles of relatives. There had been French eyes, once, as cooly appraising and just as dark.

James blinked. Now was certainly not the time to think of that. "Oh, I do believe my predecessor's name was Admiral Birford. He retired. But then, if one went by the meaning of names, that would be quite interesting, Johannes?" He smiled quietly at his cards, drawing the third.

Jack giggled and tossed another shilling into the pot. "That does sound so German! Jacques? or Juan? Ivan? Ian? Pretty much garden-variety flotsam." He drew the third card and waited, smiling.

"Latin, you heathen." James put in another shilling, then added a full crown. "But then, if you pushed someone into a river, it would not be for any pious purpose"

"Only if it were th' Ganges and I'd be sacrificin' t' Ganesh." Jack flipped a reale into the pile. "No one I know remembers if bein' baptised made things diff'rent? Do you? I always wondered." He pouted at his hand, then flirted with it.

"Spanish gold. Interesting." James held his card without any expression at all, waiting patiently. "I was only a few days old. How could I remember?" He chuckled and threw his hand on the table; a 2, a 4 and a 5. "But then, my colleagues called it a salt-water baptising when they threw me overboard in the harbour as a 'welcome' aboard the ship."

Jack tossed his hand down. Two fours. "Ah well, your deal." He upped the pot with a doubloon.

"Do you need to make up for the amount you would normally spend in a tavern?" James did have a guinea and inwardly winced as he tossed it on the table. He shuffled the cards and dealt each their first one. "This is even faster than taking prizes."

Jack laughed. "It ain't no good at all if ya don't enjoy it. Never could stomach cash fer its own sake. Although I do think I'd make a lovely coin, don't you?" He turned his head to the side, striking an attitude. "Someone once tole me I was very Charles the Second."

James laughed. "That would explain the saying of money being the origin of all trouble." He continued to chuckle softly, subtly reaching beneath his wig to scratch. It was getting warm in the room with all the fire burning and the punch. He dealt the second card, waiting for Jack's bet.

Jack produced another crown. From whence he was fetching these coins out of thin are was a mystery. They just seemed to appear between his fingers. "Th' root of all evil!" he corrected. "An' wot man soweth, that must he reap," he intoned piously, then broke into another fit of giggles.

"I see posing as a cleric has left traces." James met the bet and dealt the third card. He'd never played for so high a stake, and it was thrilling. Not because he could not afford losing the coin there on the table, but because his ambition would not tolerate folding.

Jack looked at his cards mournfully, then put one more coin on the stack, a louis d'or, new-minted and gleaming like the crystals of the chandelier.

"Kings trumpin' kings. Dear me, the French are always fightin'!"

It was an obscene amount of money for such a casual game. Each of them had tallied the sum and raised a brow. Four, five years good living staked on one card. It was as dizzying as the punch.

James chuckled again. "Not that the frog coins are worth as much as good English gold." He met the value with two golden guineas.

Jack was a sphinx, smiling over the rough backs of the cards. He flipped out another louis. "Wonderful t'hear yer blood poundin' in yer veins, ain't it?"

"You must have had a very successful haul recently," James observed, but he was not about to back down now. It was quite similar to a battle at sea, pulse pounding and awake and alive, only without the blood. What was the risk of a little coin to that? He added more crowns, his pouch growing precariously thin; after all, he did not keep all his savings with him.

Jack smiled very sweetly and added another reale to the pile. "Always so practical, James."

The green eyes darted to and fro, lit and sparkling, the amber flecks in them like small furnaces. "Commodore Norrington, I think I've had enough of that wig." He watched them widen. "Because, mate, ya look damned uncomfortable. Jus' take the bloody thing off. Put it on Seneca over there," he pointed to the bust on the sideboard. "He won't itch."

James raised an eyebrow, tossed another shilling into the pot. Then he methodically unpinned the wig and calmly settled it atop the pile of coins. "That's not Seneca. It's Catullus."

"Another windbag." Jack cocked his head at his cards and laid one last guinea on the table. "Least he could laugh. Why anyone would consider political speeches great art is beyond me simple unnerstandin'."

Jack carefully veiled his surprise. Catullus, in the good Commodore's dining room? Now that was interesting, and he wondered what the good poet had inspired in this room that Norrington would keep him here. He could hope that the good fellow would bring him luck in the amorous direction as well. "Meself, I've always preferred Ovid, what with the Exile and everything. Not that Catullus is the worst of 'em."

"The bust was a gift." James smiled to himself and emptied the remainders of his pouch on the table, followed by his cards, hiding any sign of nervousness as he waited for the pirate to show his hand. He had a 1, a 2 and a 3. Not enough to warrant the high stakes, but not such a bluff as to have nothing.

Jack's eyes were painfully exotic, tipped over his cards and ringed round with shadows. "The best gifts corrupt." He threw down a two, a four and a six. "Ah well, mus' be that yer God is smilin' on you t'night."

James raised an eyebrow. Sparrow's hand was terribly bad for risking such an amount of money. Perhaps he had tossed out the doubloon at the six as first card, and then hoped desperately for something better. Strange.

He collected his winnings and leaned back into his chair, grinning. "Would you like something to eat? There should still be some cold roast left."

"A pauper like me would be glad of a bite." Jack laughed softly. It had been worth every bleedin' farthing to watch James' face light up and glow, flush with excitement, fear, anticipation. "Should I jus' take me hat and bow or may I refill our mugs?"

James chuckled. "I can hardly deny you hospitality so dearly bought. And what worth is food without a drink. Excuse me for a moment." It was pure madness, to leave the pirate alone in his dining room, with all the coin no less, but then, Sparrow had been there for hours already. He returned not much later, carrying a plate with the cold beef and a bowl of fruit.

Jack was studying himself in the very fine Venetian glass over the sideboard. He'd become quite attached to its fuzzy edges and imperfections while surrounding it with pine boughs. He doubted that it had had such a lark in seventy years. "Behold the Beneficent Provider!"

James laughed. Odd, to think that he was offering Sparrow hospitality, bidding him to stay. "After depriving you quite thoroughly of the value of several hauls, it is the least I can do. Please, help yourself." That was more than Christmas and leniency. He was actually enjoying Sparrow's company.

Jack took the plate and served out a perfectly socially acceptable portion, complete with using the blasted silver ladle for the horseradish sauce. "Yer a prince indeed. Fit fer a king an'certainly better than that bloody tavern by the fishin' docks. Lord!" He tucked into the beef with real appetite, then paused to refill their mugs. "Yer housekeeper mus' be a jewel."

"She is, if a rough one. I am already worrying which explanation I will present her for the muddy footprints everywhere. Fortunately she has the day off tomorrow." James was thoroughly filled with Christmas dinner and only peeled himself an orange.

Jack looked abashed. "Damn. I'll swab th' decks afore I leave ya. Wouldn't want her thinkin' you were entertainin' unsavoury guests." He finished with a sigh. "Thank you heartily, James. I was that hungry! Ya think I should heat the rest o' that up? Stove's still smoulderin'."

James peered into the bowl. They had already put quite a dent into it, and he didn't want to consider that he had drunk half of that himself. "It seems hardly worth the bother for the remainders."

"Spoken like a sailor! Drink up an' here's t' hopin' fer the Resurrection." Jack winked and raised his mug with a cheer. "T'Christmas, mate."

"To Christmas in the Caribbean. As crazy as heat on Christmas Day." James sipped contentedly from his mug. "While it may come as a news to you, but I am in fact a sailor, not only in turn of phrase."

Jack twinkled at him, the way the candles twinkled and glimmered. "I'd a hunch 'bout that, James. Ya stand there, just outside those big windows when yer here an' look down at her. Wishin' you were there."

James was quiet, no confirmation but no denial either. "I cannot well take the _Dauntless_ out for a patrol on Christmas Day. The men deserve their time with their families."

Jack idly sucked horseradish off one finger and gasped at its heat. "Keeps the head clear! Y'ever sailed in smaller craft?"

"I keep considering to buy a sloop, but it would be wasted. I would hardly ever get to use it." James thought that if he was entertaining a pirate as a guest, he could as well take off his heavy woolen coat if he was hot.

Jack's face split into a grin. "How'd ya like t'be down there now? A small sloop? There's a fine wind an' it's too blasted hot t'stay indoors."

"You do realise that if you commandeer a boat in front of my eyes, I will have no other choice than to arrest you? Spare me the effort."

"Did not commandeer her! How'd ya think I got here anyway? Flyin' carpet? She's down below in that nice little cove, an' a fine lass she is. C'mon. Let's take the rum and go tell th' Gospel t'the dolphins."

The thought was far, far too tempting, and James really wanted to be out there too much to even want to resist. "Is that an attempt at kidnapping?"

"Jus' a sail round the harbour. It's too lovely outside. Look, James. Lookit th' moon, lyin' on her back like a wanton, jus' waiting t' be taken. The wind is fair an' it's clear as crystal. Hell, if He could be born in a stable, He can spend a moment shipboard wif a coupla tars."

Jack had pulled his swordbelt over his shoulder and stuck the tricorn on his head. "C'mon, James. Let's go say hello t'the moon."

"If you start howling, I will return that very moment," James warned. " A moment." He went upstairs to change his uniform to civilian clothes, boots; better suited for climbing than his dress shoes. "Very well, Jack. On your word."

Jack let the way out the back kitchen door and down through the garden to a tiny path that threaded the bluffs along the cliff down to the shore. It wasn't a difficult climb, but it was steep and neither had much breath for banter until their boots dug into the sand.

The little cove was quiet and dark. James could see the small sloop rocking in the deeper water, barely more than a four-man fishing boat.

"If you intend to use this cove for future endeavours, stop considering it. I will know, and it is not Christmas every day."

They approached, Jack already walking into the shallows when James stopped, hesitating. This was positively insane. Was he so eager to be out there that he would risk his life for it? "Wait. I want your word that you are planning nothing that involves kidnapping, killing or anything similar. A brief sail and I will be back here before dawn, unharmed." He hated how those words seemed to show fear, but he would be a fool not to consider it. He _was_ a fool to consider accepting Jack's word.

Jack turned and his hands were up again, flitting near James' nose. "Course mate! Ye'll be back here right as rain. No killin', no kidnappin', nothin' but a fine sail on a mos' fine night." His grin glimmered in the faint moonlight.

"Now c'mon. Help me out, James." Jack pulled off his coat and bunched it under one arm, wading out until he was close enough to toss it into the boat with his weapons, then hauled himself aboard, reaching out one hand to Norrington.

It was still madness for James to follow. To trust a pirate's word on this. What if only more pirates waited aboard the ship, ready to take him prisoner or kill him? Yet he did, to an extent, trust Sparrow's word. What advantage it might be to call him a liar if he broke it, James didn't know. Still, he took the hand and let himself be pulled aboard.

"Her name's the_ Consuelo_ an' she's a fine lass, ain't she?" Jack had rolled up his sleeves and hauled at the anchor line. He bustled about the small craft, then set the sails and let the breeze take them quickly away from the shore.

The night air was kissing soft. Above them on the hill, the lights of Port Royal were already winking out one by one. It was nearly ten o'clock and most decent folk were tucked in their beds or properly carousing.

To James' surprise, Jack let him take the tiller.

"Damn, if this ain't better than any church or cathedral."

He steered her gently outward, away from the fort and alongside Jamaica's coast. As always during the night, the wind blew from the land to the sea, speeding them. Setting a course slightly further out, he tied the tiller fast and leant back. "It's definitely a different sight from out here. And I for one am glad that she is Spanish, so that I do not have to worry where you stole her."

Jack laughed at him. "Why mus' you assume I stole her? I mighta borrowed her, or she might be mine." He wedged his narrow hip against the rudder and dug into his coat pocket, coming up with the single bottle of rum that had not been consigned to the fruity, fragrant punch. He took a pull and handed it to James. "Always looks impossibly small, don't it? Like men jus' have no idea how really little their world is."

James laughed. "You are a pirate, and that she is stolen is far more likely than you paying for her." He looked different, out here at sea, the lines of his face easier, a slight upward tilt to that stiff upper lip. "It is difficult to consider it little when even the fastest ship takes months to round it, and then only see a small part."

"That's wot I mean, mate. Y'look at a city on th' horizon, an' it's jus' a little spot of earth, like all those thousands of other little spots. Jus' a drop in the bucket compared to the ocean. An' to them." Jack looked skyward at the canopy of stars overhead.

"Mankind always thinks itself so bloody brilliant an' we still can't agree on whether the damned world is round. Ask th' Inquisition. They're convinced it's flat as a pancake an' all roads still lead t'Rome!"

James shrugged. "I have never been to Rome, so that assumption seems highly unlikely. And I for one would be frightened if I always agreed with the French and the Spanish and _you_." He looked out at their wake, then the small boat again. "Just like a ship can seem large or small, depending who is looking at her."

"True enough, luv." Jack pulled the pipe out of his pocket. "Wanna smoke?" He lit it with a small flint and passed it to James, breathing out smoke like a gilded dragon. "Remember my first sight of me first ship. Cor, she seemed enormous t'me then. Trim l'il craft, 32 gunner. Merchant ship on a mapmakin' course round Africa. Sailed outta Yarmouth an' only went back once."

James whistled softly. "Africa? I wager she seemed small enough by the time you arrived. Even the _Dauntless_ seems small sometimes." He chuckled. "Especially on a weeks-long journey to the Caribbean with a curious young girl aboard." It was strange how they sat there, in peaceful camaraderie, the rum and the pipe switching hands every now and then.

Jack chuckled. "Lizabeth? Was she as much bother then as she is now? A perfect example of why certain women should never learn t'read. Turns their heads inta hay. An' aye, how right y'are. Didn't take long before the _Cassiopeia_ seemed very small t'me. She were a nice ship though. I was sorry t'see her scuttled." Jack was watching James eagerly, the moon whitening his face to ghostly pallor, his eyes like a cat's in the dark.

James thought briefly, took a sip of the rum and nodded, smiling fondly. "Just like she is now. Only with freckles." He blushed at the impropriety and quickly changed topic. "Why was she scuttled?" Jack seemed almost childlike in the moonlight, the sharp cheekbones a little softer, the dangerous glint more playful.

"Got nabbed by pirates off the coast o'North Africa. Never found out wot happened t'her. She wasn't set ablaze, but who knows. Musta foundered." Jack shrugged. "I guess I'da felt worse now. I got me first taste o' ship's life on her an' it did seem a shame, but I had other things on me mind at th' time." Jack's dark eyes never left James' face. He was that enchanted with the green eyes and the way that wide mouth relaxed from its stern lines to a boyish grin.

James turned to his side, noticed Jack's gaze and arched a curious eyebrow but didn't comment. He took a long puff from the pipe, watched the smoke drift away on the breeze and shrugged. "It never quite hurts or even matters as much when one isn't the Captain."

"True again, James. Very true indeed. It takes a real Cap'n t'cry fer his ship." Jack pushed away his darker memories and thought of the _Pearl_, conveniently moored on the north side of Jamaica, well away from Navy ships and interference and still close enough for Jack's comfort.

"Yes." James didn't mention the _Interceptor_, but she was there, floating on the waves; more of a ghost ship than even the _Black Pearl_. She was there as he lifted the bottle, poured out a measure into the sea as though making an offering to the ancient gods, and then drank himself.

Jack's hand reached out in the darkness, the long fingers wound round Norrington's arm for a brief moment, as though he knew exactly what was in the Commodore's mind. "Wanna take her up round the point? There's a nice little current but it rushes fast an' ye'll have t'keep on yer toes." He didn't want to remind Norrington of past indiscretions, such as breaking out of his gaol or getting his ship blown to the depths.

James was half-startled but quickly covered it with a sneer. "I've lived here for more than eight years now. Believe me when I say I know these waters." He untied the tiller and eased her into the new course, tacking and feeling how the current grabbed at her keel. His own grin widened with every knot of speed they gained.

Jack's hair blew back from his face, a dark curtain against the night sky, jingling faintly with every gust. He was smiling broadly, one hand on the rudder, his face swallowed by his eyes.

"I should hope ya did, James. " He beamed approvingly. "Very smooth manueverin', mate. A toast to a right proper helmsman." He leaned forward to pass the bottle and the little _Consuelo_ lurched as if giggling at his antics, sending him stumbling into James. "Sorry 'bout that. Here." His breath was sweet with rum, hot in the cool rush of the breeze.

James went very still suddenly, only his hand on the tiller automatically holding fast against the current. Wordless, he took the bottle and drank a swallow.

Jack withdrew slowly, his gaze never leaving James', questioning, wary and daring. "You handle her beautifully! Ya should have a little ship of yer own. Sometimes any man's gotta get off by his onsies. Look, there's the point tower. Looks a bit lonely don't it?"

James arched an eyebrow. Jack's behavior was... decidedly interested, and he didn't think he misread it. Or was the pirate merely toying with him, waiting for James to react on it and then embarrass him? He decided to ignore it for now.

"There are two guards up there, even at Christmas. And they're rarely alone." He knew it was the custom of the fortunate soldiers who had leave to collect money and then send whores to entertain the ones on watch. Like most commanders, he turned a blind eye to it, especially as that one night when he'd had watch as a Lieutenant on Christmas Night had been most...interesting.

Jack laughed long and hard. "Oh hell, yes! Bet if some poor sod foundered here he could light himself aflame an' the only thing they'd be seein' was some trull's tits." He sat down again, close enough to see James clearly. "Was rather surprised you came home a'tall. I figgered you'd be out fer a Christmas shag."

"Ah yes, a fine way to welcome our Lord." James laughed. "Why would I? I have no wish to find out which of my officers all has no family to spend their evening with, much less hear them in the adjourning room."

"No woman on th' side, James? I woulda taken you fer one who favours the French fillies. Pretty as ya please an' never get lost in sentiment." Jack's gilt grin stretched as he laughed. "Me? Always preferred a nice little Chinese girl, but fer some reason, keep gettin' involved with crazy Spanish women. Wildcats, all of 'em."

"Birds of a feather flock together." Crazy wildcat seemed an apt description for Sparrow, especially watching him in the moonlight, his lithe body prowling the boat, smooth and stealthy. "I fail to see how it concerns you, but no, no woman with whom I would spend Christmas Night. I had hoped that there would be my wife."

"Ahh. That were a terrible shame an' I really was rootin' fer you. But woman are a strange lot. Ain't been so terrible close with any in particular fer a long time now. They do go on 'bout when ya'll be back an' all that blather." Jack ducked down into the tiny cabin for a brief moment, fetching up another bottle.

"Don't you have a woman aboard the _Black Pearl_? Is she not...?" James wondered how to phrase this delicately but decided to concentrate on keeping them on course. They were slowing down once more, and now he could feel the drops of salt water slide down his collar, cool and alive; unhindered by any cravat.

"AnaMaria? Oh Lord, no! She's more n' I could handle sober as a judge!" Jack laughed at the thought. "We tried that once. Didn't work at all but y'see we had a problem. We liked each other an' she's the finest sailor I know. Besides, Ana's way of settlin' arguments is wif a ballocks knife. Not very conducive t'making up an' all that."

He had brought something else up from the tiny cabin: a melon, perfectly round and pale as a small moon. He carved into it with his boot knife, dumping the seeds overboard and handing a slice to James. "Couldn't ask fer anythin' better, could ya?"

It was a terribly juicy melon. With only one hand to eat and the other to handle the tiller, James could not quite keep the sticky juice from dribbling down his chin, only barely catching it with the back of his palm. "Do you mean to tell me she is simply part of the crew, not a whore?" He didn't mean any disrespect, he was simply surprised.

"Ana? She's a tar if every there were one. One o' th' best pilots I've ever seen, specially 'round inlets an' rocky coasts. Got an instinct fer it. An' she'd cut yer throat if she ever heard ya call her a whore. Not exactly subtle, is our Ana." Jack's lips were wet with the melon, glistening and rose dark above the silly beard. "Here, lemme take that so you can enjoy it proper." The moment his hand was on the tiller, he could feel the _Consuelo_ to his toes, every little current that buffeted her sensed through his fingertips.

James yielded up the space and sat on the deck, nibbling on the melon. Rather than wiping with his sleeve, his tongue darted out to lick away the sticky juice from his lips. "My apologies. I found it hard to fathom a woman aboard a pirate ship." After all, he knew sailors' reactions to women after weeks shipboard.

"Oh Ana can take care o' herself jus' fine. There aren't many I know who'd care t'cross her. Remember a few years back, some big Irishman tried. He was singin' soprano fer weeks after. Ain't that jus' the best! There's this l'il bit of an island where the villagers grow 'em. Smaller than some, but I've never tasted anythin' sweeter." James' lips looked sweet enough by themselves, the juice gathering at the corners of it and gleaming on the curve of the lower. Jack sighed without hearing himself.

"Delicious," James agreed, cutting another slice for each of them. He wasn't blind, nor deaf. He'd realised Jack's curiosity as he'd talked of a 'Christmas shag', and he was well aware of the glances now. He couldn't say it wasn't tempting. Despite the beard, Jack's lips looked very soft, and, visible under an open collar, the salt spray trickled down a line of very promising lithe muscle. "Have you not? What of that candy they make in the East? Sticky as honey and twice as sweet."

"Turkish Delight? How'd ya think I lost all these teeth! " Jack teased.

He tied off the tiller and let them drift with the tide, settling down to enjoy the melon. He washed another bite down with rum and wondered if there was a way to distill the taste of the two into one glorious spirit. "I've a terrible sweet tooth," he confessed, sucking the juice from his fingertips.

"Is there a single of life's temptations you bother resisting?" Even James' best efforts did not help him to eat the fruit in a mannerly fashion, the sweet juice sticking to lips, fingers, down his chin.

Jack laughed softly and tossed a wine skin at him. "Water. An' prob'ly not. Life's too short t'miss things. An' wot's th' point of sailin' all round th' world, and still leavin' yer mind in a box?"

"Especially when, as you do, one leaves that box far away from oneself." James chuckled softly, then fell quiet again, his gaze alternating between the sea and the night sky, drifting to Jack more and more often. "There is another thing I am wondering about, and maybe you can help me. Why would a pirate take the risk of sneaking into a Commodore's house, and then lose on purpose in a card game of high stakes?"

Jack's smile was as enigmatic as his eyes. "Maybe th' pirate felt that the comp'ny was more than worth th' coin." He tossed the rinds into the water, watching the reflected stars ebb and flow in circles where they landed.

James blinked, the re-lit pipe drooping forgotten from his hands. "That strikes me as unlikely. If that was an attempt at bribery, it won't work."

"Mate, if I were bribin' you, ye'd know it. Yer a funny fella, James. Not very used t'compliments, are ya?" Jack had stretched out, the bottle wedged between his knees, as comfortable on the deck as ever a man could appear. He sniffed at the air with a contented expression. "Why don't ya believe that I wanted t'see you?'

"Why would you? You didn't have the slightest guarantee that I wouldn't run you through at the first opportunity, or at the very least arrest you. It is what I should have done, and you had no reason at all to expect leniency." James sat next to him, long legs stretched out, peering down curiously. Jack looked happy there, without the least worry in the world. James' eyes followed the long line of the lithe body and he licked his lips again, unconsciously this time.

Jack's smile widened. "I had a feelin' you weren't th'type to pass up a good rum punch." He sat up, suddenly all too close. "Jus' a hunch, y'know." James' lips were too tempting and he held himself back with no little difficulty.

"I see," James murmured. He didn't often act on impulse, but now he wanted to, and did. He was too full of energy and too alone this night; Jack's lips too close and full to resist. His hand slid underneath Jack's hair, curling between the coarse braids and the damp nape, pulling their lips together, hot, but inquisitive and lasting only a few seconds before he pulled back, waiting for any reaction. "Just a whim."

Jack's lips were still parted, as if poised to speak. They did look very red under the droop of his mustache, which was softer than it appeared. In fact, everything about Jack was at six's and seven's. His skin was the colour of a weather-beaten tar's but smooth as a boy's. His hair was a mad tangle, yet the curling locks that mingled with dreads and braids were silken. He smiled. "I like yer whims, James." The second kiss was more heated, still questioning and tentative, but insistent.

That was all the confirmation James needed. His hand remained tangled into the dark hair, while the other supported him on the deck, as he twisted from his sideways position, perched above Jack, lips sucking hard at his collar. "It would seem that we are both out for a Christmas shag after all." James laughed breathlessly, tugging at Jack's sash.

Jack refrained from noting that he'd won his own bet after all and enthusiastically pulled off the sash and his shirt, fingers working cleverly and almost imperceptibly on James' buttons. "The Romans called it Saturnalia an' had a great ole orgy of a time. Think of as humility in acknowledgin' our human weakness. " He got the last button free and slid one hand into James' breeches.

"Why do I believe that you take the Romans as an example only in their depravity, but never discipline?" James gasped, lips curving against Jack's chest as his spine arched. He had been right, the shirt had been hiding a beautifully defined, body, writhing against him promisingly. He groaned and pushed into Jack's grip.

Jack craned his neck, kissing hungrily and his hand was very busy indeed, calloused thumb running over the swollen head of James' prick, the other fluttering over his chest, tickling below his ear and twining into his hair. He shifted and shoved his bundled coat under their heads and returned, breathless for more kisses.

James moaned a laugh into his mouth, fiendishly distracting him with that mischievous glint in the green eyes while a long-fingered hand worked his breeches open and slipped inside, pulling insistently. Jack might well have spent a moment wondering about the calluses on his hands, but they felt far too good, and James broke the kiss to nip at his throat because he did need air rather desperately.

He gulped and went back to nuzzling the lobe of James' left ear. He pushed down on the open breeches with a little moan that made James' prick jump in his hand.

He got confused, trying to please James' with one hand, and get his own britches open for further pleasure with the other. "James, " he whispered. "Get 'em down, off, sumpthin'. Please!" His voice was soft and rough, urgent and still rumbling with his ever-present laughter.

James thrilled at it, pushing into Jack's hand and stifling a groan against his chest. He chuckled breathlessly as he sat back, panting, kicking off his boots and then tore at his breeches and Jack's. He yanked at them, longing for skin. Within a heartbeat he was atop Jack again, thrusting a leg between his and renewing the firm grip with a soft snarl.

Jack pushed up into the warm palm and grinned into the kiss. For once, he seemed to have gotten it right. He rolled out from under James, ignoring the frustrated gulp and rummaged in his coat pocket. The oil was warm from being beneath them, slicking his fingers and James' cock liberally, its scent dizzying. He had rolled back for another kiss whilst his hand was so busy, but now rolled to his side. "G'wan luv."

The sweat was dripping down James' face, framing eyes that were dark and dilated, gone wide now. This was more than he expected, but not more than he wanted. And given so easily, just because they both wanted each other here, on a calm sea beneath a starry sky when everyone and everything else remained indoors?

He turned behind Jack, panting a few breaths against the sweaty nape to calm himself, then slowly nudged his prick inside.

Jack's gasp was soft and he pushed back against James and crooked one arm back over his head to pull James close, undulating like a golden snake on the deck. "G'wan, luv," he panted. "Fuck me, here an' now."

"I do believe I am doing that already," James groaned breathlessly into Jack's ear, his hand curled into the dark hair, pulling Jack's head around and twisting his body for a sloppy kiss, biting down just as he pushed again. His neck arched, forehead bowed against Jack's nape, fingers curled and fingernails digging into his side.

The muffled laugh was lost in the kiss and the starlight. The white hands were strong for all their aristocratic looks, holding him securely, almost viciously. He pushed back and forth and fell into pace, his head spinning out with the night as he did. Jack's breath skipped and jumped in little begging moans.

James would have laughed had he the breath for it. Instead, his voice joined in a crescendo of moans and little gasps. He slid one arm around the honeydark skin, taking hold of Jack's prick again.

Jack abandoned himself to sensation; the hard cock inside him, the palm against his own, the scent of them mingled musk and salt. His breath hitched and he cried out, his brain spinning to the stars, his body spilling over James' fingers.

He could feel James' chin dig into the side of his neck, the hard jaw against his collarbone. Then they dug in harder still and James buried his lips against Jack's neck, not quite able to stifle his low keening as he pushed again and then fell still, quivering. Sweat dripped down Jack's nape and James panted against it, openmouthed, tasting and breathing salt.

The _Consuelo_ rocked gently as Jack turned in his arms, his eyes half-closed and kicked his breeches away, his legs and arms twining around James.

Jack was that strange thing among men; he was a cuddler. He loved being enveloped in the warmth of skin before, after, and during the act of love. He breathed out a soft laugh and pressed a kiss to where one droplet of sweat glimmered on James' upper lip. "Happy Christmas indeed."

James laughed again, slowly catching his breath, the breeze teasing gooseflesh on his wet skin. "Happy Christmas."

He lay very still, wary of breaking the reverie. "We're drifting."

"I know." Jack's breath stirred his hair, smelling strongly of rum. He pulled himself away reluctantly and poked his head up above the rails. "Hell!" He untied the tiller and got to his feet, tugging at the sail until he'd turned them around, all unselfconsciously naked.

James helped him to tie fast the foresail and then the mainsail boom, setting their course back. They had to sail further out to avoid the currents, but both were strangely silent, watching each other warily. James opened his mouth to say something, then instead bent to pull on his breeches. "I presume your crew is out for shoreleave and carousing?"

Jack just smiled and leaned forward to button James' breeches. "Suppose so. It's usual, ain't it?" His fingers ran up James' arm gently, his eyes sleepy alert, like Mrs. Thornton's cat in front of the stove. He pulled James close for another kiss. "Lovely."

James blushed, hiding his face in Jack's hair. This was unusual. It was rare enough that men kissed, but never had he found this intimacy after the matter was settled. He stalled with another kiss, then a secret smile, lost in thought, his thumb tracing a scar on Jack's chest. "You won't make it back to any port before dawn," he began warily.

Jack's voice was muffled against his neck. "Don't matter. I'll be fine. Mus' get you back though." James smelled of soap, not the coarse lye kind, but the sort one only found in a gentleman's cabin, triple-milled and frothing. He smelled of heat and sweat, salt and verbena. Jack had caught its scent earlier and the lemon sharpness cut through the warmth like sunlight through a cloud. "Never meant t'be here so long."

"And I never thought I would let you stay so long." James fought back the ridiculous nervousness; it certainly was too late for that. "I did offer you hospitality this evening, and I won't go back on it. You can stay the night, if you wish." A nervous pause. "There is a guest room," he added hastily, as the pause stretched. He didn't want to sound as if he were making conditions.

Jack stopped where he was, holding onto a line, his body fluid gold, frozen. "Ye'll have matters to attend to in the morn." He was desperately afraid of wearing out his welcome, unwelcome as it had been. "Yer housekeeper would have fits!".

"Tomorrow is a holiday. My housekeeper has the day off, and there is nobody at the fort who would even as much as notice if I did not go there tomorrow." James stopped, then smiled wistfully and picked up his shirt. What was he thinking, offering this? Was he this lonely and desperate for human contact? "It is your decision, of course."

Jack suddenly grinned at him. "We could make pan perdu fer breakfast." He was ageless, an overgrown child looking forward to a treat. "I'd like that, James. I'd like it very much." He curved into the line of the _Consuelo's_ shadows, manning the tiller with easy grace. "Y'ever tasted maple syrup?"

James shook his head, the shirt drooping from his hands as he grinned at it ridiculously. "No, I have not. Although I am convinced that my housekeeper will have fits if we dare to wreak havoc in her kitchen." He imagined the good Mrs. Thornton's reaction to Jack, torn between muddy footprints and the childlike grin, and laughed.

Jack was alight with another adventure. It was the way his life went, adventure to adventure, always something new and strange and fascinating waiting over the next horizon.

He glanced down and laughed. "Suppose I should put me britches on, then!"

  
FIN

  
NOTES: NOTES: Cacho is a 17th century bidding game, the precurssor to poker. [Reconstruction](http://astro.uchicago.edu/~ruben/cards/reconstructions/reconstructions3.html#cacho)

Pan Perdu: a variation of French toast. Here is Emeril's New Orleans version:[ Pan Perdu](http://www.foodnetwork.com/food/cda/recipe_print/0,1946,FOOD_9936_4979_PRINT-RECIPE-4X6-CARD,00.html)

Finally, rum punch was much enjoyed not only in the Caribbean from the 16th century on. There are many variations of a 'planter's punch' This is Jack's, based on a recipe dating from the early 18th century:

One parts sour (juice of a dozen oranges and limes or lemons)  
Two parts sweet (sugar or cane syrup)  
Three parts strong (dark rum)  
Four parts weak (water)  
One bottle neat (French brandy)  
And Spices Unique (Cloves and cinnamon, ground coarse)

Heat all until smoking hot, strain into punch bowl.

The original recipe, without the brandy and spices, was served chilled.


End file.
